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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25172239">Coratella d’Agnello</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadwitchcraft/pseuds/sadwitchcraft'>sadwitchcraft</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cannibalism, Child Abuse, Child Death, Gen, Murder, Starvation, Torture, and now for the trigger warnings, lamb - Freeform, lecter family - Freeform, mischa lecter - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:14:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>768</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25172239</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadwitchcraft/pseuds/sadwitchcraft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal witnesses the death of his sister.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Coratella d’Agnello</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hannibal Rising was a trash book and the timeline for it doesn't match with NBC. So this is me reimagining this particular trauma.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mischa was crying. It was a soft, plaintive, sound in the darkness. Hannibal stirred and reached for her. Her hand closed around his, her little nails catching in his skin. She cried for a little while longer and eventually quieted, leaving them to the ever present sound of water. It had been three months since they had seen the sky. Mischa’s sixth birthday had come and gone, though Hannibal didn’t have the heart to tell her. </p><p>The man who had fallen upon their family like the plague came every few days with scraps of food for them to eat like dogs. Hannibal gave most of them to Mischa, squatted down on the ground beside her while she ate. He was growing leaner with every passing day, his sharp features becoming more and more skull like. Mischa thinned, but was spared starvation even if she did have to squat in the dirt to eat.</p><p>The snows came. The stone of the cell provided no comfort. Hannibal curled himself around his sister’s body in an effort to keep her warm, even as his muscles pulled at his bones like they’d tear him apart from shivering. Their captor came with few scraps, treating them as the afterthought they were.</p><p>Mischa was crying. Hannibal was pulled out of his sleep by the sound -- a rabbit caught in the teeth of a fox. He hadn’t heard their captor come down. He’d been too tired. Too weak. He hadn’t felt him steal Mischa from his side. It wasn’t until she’d made that rabbit sound that he woke up.</p><p>Their shadows were cast on the wall. Mischa was such a small child. So easily broken, like a doll. The man was bored with them, trying to clean up loose ends before he left the Lecter Estate with everything he’d wanted. While the children had been starving in the cell, he had been selling off antiques and working open the family’s safe. With his pockets lined, he was ready to move on. But there was the issue of the children. Hannibal sat up and pushed himself to his feet. </p><p>She stopped making the rabbit sound before the man dropped her. Hannibal moved towards her, all of the air pressed out of his lungs as he realized just how still she was -- how pale she was in the dim light that filtered into the cell. He didn’t even feel the blow to the back of his head.</p><p>Mischa’s nails didn’t dig into his skin. Her fingers were stiff in his hand, cold as the stones around them. They should have been dead together, but his eyes were open. He sat up slowly. The cell door was locked. It was almost as if the man hadn’t been there at all. Hannibal would have believed he’d dreamed it all, if it weren’t for how cold Mischa’s little hand was.<br/>
He laid back down with her and hoped he’d die.</p><p>It had been so long since they’d been brought scraps. The plate that he had used was sitting outside the cell, just out of reach. Hannibal’s stomach woke him next, growling at the coppery scent that came off the body. Meat. There was meat nearby, and he was starving. He held Mischa’s hand and tried to ignore the insistent need that was rising up in him. A need that had an answer.</p><p>He spent the better part of the next day straining against the bars, doing everything he could think to do to get a hold of the plate that was left sitting there. His shoulder felt like he’d popped it out of the socket by the time he had the plate in his hands. He smashed it against the bars and held the largest piece in his hand.</p><p>He covered Mischa’s face with her dress so that he would not have to look at her eyes. Lamb. It was lamb. And he knew how to prepare a lamb. All he had to do was make the first cut…</p><p>The bones were clean when he was found. The policija took him from the cell, surrounded it with bright yellow tape and tried to determine what had happened. A soft spoken social worker tried to coax the truth of what had happened out of him, wanting him to give voice to what the police had already determined by examining tool and teeth marks on bone. </p><p>He didn’t say anything. His lamb had taken his voice from him. When she tried to get him to write it out, he gave her a recipe for coratella d’agnello. She left him alone after that.</p>
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